


The Rain Song

by Rollingstone



Category: Led Zeppelin
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Betaed, Edited, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Happy Ending, Healthy dose of angst, M/M, Rock and Roll, anxious jimmy, jimbert - Freeform, slight bonzo/jonesy at the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-30
Updated: 2018-07-30
Packaged: 2019-06-18 16:20:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15489840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rollingstone/pseuds/Rollingstone
Summary: Jimmy loves his band like a father love his child, and as any father would, he'll do anything to get whats best for his child. However, when Jimmy becomes too invested in a song, Robert is there to pull him out of his spell.





	The Rain Song

**Author's Note:**

> This is essentially me desperate for a Led Zeppelin fanfic. This fiction approaches anxiety (although not in disturbing depth) in a very real way; the fear of disappointing others around oneself is something I've struggled with. When i read a quote about Jimmy Page dealing with anxiety and depression, i was prompted to write something in lose relations to it. Thus the birth of this fanfiction.  
> I do NOT own any characters in this fiction, and NO harm is intended to the personal.

       The house was silent save for the music creeping out of the living room and through the house; save for the whispering patter of rain on the windows; save for the edgy noises coming from it’s landlord.  Light bleed from a lace lamp next to Jimmy, illuminating his fingers dance along the fret board of his acoustic immaculately.

His tea had long gone cold and begun to congeal, and the coach whined to its unmoving passenger; but Jimmy was inexorable, even as his fingers began to spasm and the calluses on his finger began to split and sweat, he continued to slave music from his guitar.

 

       That morning had been unusually beautiful. The sun had shined through Jimmy’s curtains like fay dust and had gently caressed him awake, persuading him to stretch luxuriously in bed until the last minuet. 

Robert had urgently called the night before, raving to Jimmy about just the prettiest melody he may have ever conceived; Robert had hummed the sound into a recorder and demanded to see Jimmy the next morning. Jimmy had listen to Roberts tenor in complete peace until the stars had twinkled there brightest and Robert had said a yawn interrupted farewell. 

Now, Jimmy slipped on indolent clothes and went through the house opening windows and filling the house with warm light and crisp air. As Jimmy was placing the kettle on the stove, he heard Robert knock (obligatorily), unlocked the door and announced himself with cheer and purpose. 

“Good Morning, Pagey -oh yes please, thank you, chamomile would be wonderful.” Robert stuck his head in the kitchen and shone a smile that had Jimmy melting. Robert asked how the slight man was before slipping away. “Do you remember when George Harrison attended Bonzo’s birthday?” Roberts whiskey and honey voice sounded from the living room as he set up the player for his recording. 

Jimmy hummed indulgently, cheer coursing through him like a drug from Roberts presence. “Yes, the Beatle quite liked us, didn’t he?” Jimmy’s soft nasally voice responded. 

Robert finished setting up the playing and came to sit at Jimmy’s kitchen table, easing back into his vintage seat and flipping his hair over his shoulders. “Well he certainly didn’t dislike us, although he was rather pretentious in his belief that we couldn’t make something thoughtful or gentle.”

Jimmy came over with their tea, handing the golden rose China cup to Robert. Jimmy lifted a dark eyebrow at the accusation, “A sonnet? You’re not telling me you wrote a sonnet, are you Robert?” Jimmy asked with a small skeptical smirk. 

“That’s right,” Robert said proudly, “and your going to love it.”

Robert sprung up from the table and grasped Jimmy’s wrist, pulling Jimmy along to the living room and sitting them down on Jimmy’s flower coach (it reminded Robert of something his dear ma would fancy). “Listen here” Robert said and pressed the red button on the player. 

The speakers crackled for a few seconds until the sound of a dreaming melody began to come through the static sound; beside him Robert began to hum along to his own voice. Jimmy felt himself painfully tumble into love with Robert all over again. 

When the melody faded out into the crinkle of static, Robert turned it off, and looked to Jimmy expectantly. 

“It’s beautiful,” Jimmy offered with genuine warmth, “but there’s no words.”

Robert gave Jimmy a cheeky grin and Jimmy rolled his eyes; yes, he said butt, grow up.

“That’s why your going to love this” Robert beamed, “I thought up a couple lines last night and this morning, however, everything you just listened too, I want you to play.” Jimmy opened his mouth to respond, but Robert hurried on, “I know it’s rudimentary, nevertheless your incredible with what you do, Jimmy. This is just the idea, all you gotta do is work your magic. You’re not called the Dark Wizard for nothing.”

Jimmy smiled bashfully, “That’s not my riff,” Robert rolled his eyes at the pun, “it’s only your going to need a whole ballad of lyric to fill up this song, not just a few lyrics.”

Robert scotched closer in excitement, resting his hand on Jimmy’s shoulders and shaking him gently, “You don’t get it Pagey, that’s just it! This song going to be all about you! I want _you_  to sing through your guitar, to create a story and landscape of emotion through your instrument. We’ll figure out how to bring in Jonesy and Bonzo later, or maybe it’ll come to while your writing your parts. Even so, I want to take a step back on this one and let you lead completely.”

As Robert rambled on Jimmy’s eye became alight with possibility and the endless adventure it unlocked for him. “Shut up a tick, Robert.” Robert obliged willingly. Roberts hands fell back to his lap as Jimmy ran up to his room and bounded right back down with his acoustic guitar. 

Jimmy settled back onto the coach, his guitar resting as naturally against him as if it were his lover, and Robert watch admirably and jealously. 

Robert leaned back into the coach with abandon as Jimmy caressed life into his guitar and the room was washed in easy contentment. The ecstasy Jimmy brought to Robert when he played guitar was almost enough to subdue and satisfy his wanting for Jimmy; and yet Robert still wished to caress Jimmy as Jimmy did his guitar, and to speak emotion to him as sweet as Jimmy did with his guitar. Robert opened his heavy eyes when Jimmy stumbled over his recreation of the melody and watch embarrassment flush Jimmy’s cheek. 

“It’ll take some time to work it out and add the intricacy I want in it, and- “

“Jimmy, that was unbelievable, and its just in the early stage; don’t stress, don’t worry. It’ll come to you, as it always does.” Robert eased in a soothing voice, feeling the anxiety that had intermixed into Jimmy’s voice. Jimmy was a chronic worrier, and Robert firmly believed that was a dominating factor in Led Zeppelin’s enormous success. Jimmy’s anxiety tortured him into being excessively prepared, always pushing him over his limit in a rather concerning way; and yet its product and reward was the music that he brought to the group. 

In the beginning of Led Zeppelin’s enormous fame Jimmy had turn to the Sweet Lady H as the pressure to be perfect was amplified. Robert discovered Jimmy’s addiction the brutal way. On there second American tour he’d found Jimmy trembling in a hotel bathtub, suffering from a bad trip (though Robert still believed he was on the edge of an over dose). After that Robert stripped Jimmy clean of his addiction and became his saving grace, replacing Jimmy’s refuge in heroin with the sanctuary of his comfort and honest companionship. Robert had learnt a flaw of Jimmy’s in a way that made him bare, and in return Jimmy had to trust Robert. 

Jimmy relaxed slightly, and the tension drained from his shoulders, “Thank you, Robert” Jimmy responded softly.

 

       Robert left around noon; twelve hours ago.  

Jimmy had gravitated towards his guitar instantly, scribbling down what he’d already created and replaying the tape. It didn’t take long for Jimmy to have a basic reformation of the sound on his guitar, yet as the sun was hidden by moody cloud, and the moon ultimately rose behind them, Jimmy counited to grieve over the imperfect melody, his obsession over the song encouraged by the shadows beside him.  

Pages of music laid before Jimmy on the table, scribbles and notes graffitiing each page to different degrees. Jimmy leaned to correct another section on the page and aligned his hands to try it; a pain paralyzed Jimmy’s hand and he gasped, flinching his left hand away from the strings. In the dim light of the lamp Jimmy held his hand up, watching dark liquid ooze from his torn finger tips and slid down his long fingers. 

Jimmy gazed at his guitar in numb horror, eyes tracing the murky smudges of blood along the fret board and strings. Abruptly Jimmy felt sick and his vision rolled queasily. 

Anxiety churned in his stomach, festering like a black smoke and chocking his lungs. He didn’t have time for disruptions, he needed to flawless this song, needed to bring it to his mates for there studio session tomorrow. Most of all he need to please Robert; the pure excitement in which Robert had brought the song to Jimmy could not be failed upon, Jimmy couldn’t watch that look of joy be twisted into disappointment. 

This had to be perfect. 

_It need to be._

Jimmy wiped his bloodied hand on his jeans and ignored how the fabric grate the exposed flesh. He lay his finger back on the metal string, instantly wanting to rip them away from the harsh metal as pain twisted through his nerves and up his arm. Instead he savagely pressed them down and begun to pluck away at the strings again, excruciating pain accompanying each chord change. Jimmy grated his teeth, his whole body tensing from the torture. Tears of frustration shone in Jimmy’s eyes as his hands begun to shake and his music crumbled like the Herod’s Temple.

He bit his lip in an angry hold as he tried to slide he finger into the next chord, but the blood like oil caused his grip on the strings to fail, and the metal pressed into the spilt flesh and slice deeper. Jimmy cried out, his anguish echoing through the house like condescending laughter.

Jimmy’s hand was shaking uncontrollably, continuing to shake as he curled them into a fist.  He jerkily lifted the guitar strap from his shoulders and lay in on his lap, resting his hand on the guitar body and leaning back. 

Jimmy clinched his eyes shut tightly. The pain of his twitching fingers was suddenly dulled again at the force of his anxiety. Jimmy clutch his stomach with his right hand as anxiety gnawed at his stomach and chest. Scenarios flashed through his mind, leaving lingering seeds of dread in his mind and growing into a consuming prickle brush.

In resignation Jimmy lay his guitar on the floor and slumped into the coach; it was impossible for him to play anymore, he’d have to bring it to them in its skeletal state tomorrow. 

His eyes slid shut bitterly, as though they weighted like stones, and the pain in his bloodied hand was subdued by sleep. 

      

       Jimmy woke with waves of dysphoria washing over him. 

He blinked his eyes open groggily, dizziness fading away from his vision in clouds. His head pulsed and sent waves of nauseating hunger and exhaustion through his body.

A pounding at the door resounded through the house, Roberts voice muffled through the front door was registered feeblemindedly by Jimmy’s brain. Jimmy pushed himself into a sitting position on the coach, clutching his head as the throbbing grew more immobilizing. When the pulsing dulled Jimmy reeled back at the sudden clarity of the night before. He gazed at his left hand with disgust; the grotesque appearance of dried blood cracking didn’t do justice to the pain of moving it. 

“Jimmy?! Are you home?” Roberts voice rang clear from the coat room, and Jimmy was engulfed by frenzied panic. Robert couldn’t see this, Robert couldn’t see _Jimmy_ like this. 

Robert rounded the corner to the living room, hair weighted down by the slight perspiration still falling outside, “Oh, Jimmy, there you are. Is everything alright? You didn’t show up to the studio, so I thought I’d drop by and see if you were...” Robert trailed off, Jimmy was faced away from him on the coach, his body caved into himself defensively, the same way he had when he’d... terror pierced Roberts heart as the though that Jimmy may have shot up attacked him. 

He rushed to Jimmy, tripping slightly over his guitar before jerking him around. Robert felt the blood drain from his cheeks in tendrils of chills. Suddenly, for a second too long, Robert wish Jimmy had relapsed instead, then he would’ve know how to deal with it... but this, this was a mess. 

“Good Lord...” Robert breathed. His eyes were glued by horror to the scene, wandering from Jimmy’s blooded hand, to the blood smeared guitar laying on the floor.

Jimmy was another tragedy to be observed; his body shook with fatigue and his clothes were soiled with blood in some places, but his hand was the ugly truth Robert didn’t want to see. His eye reluctantly found Jimmy’s mangled hand and cradled it in his own, inspecting the bruised and shredded finger tips. He brought Jimmy’s hand closer to him, but Jimmy flinched away from him. Hurt and anger coursed through Robert like an electric current over heating. 

“What. Is. This.” He growled lowly, and Jimmy seemed to shrivel away. 

Robert new exactly what this was, but if it was what he thought, then the blame of this would rest heavily on his mind long after Jimmy’s hand would heal. 

“I- Robert I- I didn’t mean to, I just wanted, I mean, I thought I could finish the song, but it wasn’t good enough, it didn’t- it didn’t sound right, it wasn’t perfect. So, I kept working on it, and I-I got carried away.” Jimmy stumbled over his word like a drunkard. He watched as emotions flipped over Roberts face at unidentifiable speed. The silence suffocated Jimmy, his head still spinning alarmingly. 

Robert hung his head, fluffy golden curls obscuring his face. His shoulders were wired with tension and his hands gripped his knees in a white-knuckle hold. 

“Robert?” Jimmy swallowed the lump of anxiety lodged in his throat; he knew he’d really damned this one to hell. Jimmy wouldn’t be able to play for at least a week, and that’s if he was real lucky. This album wasn’t going to make its self. 

The tension drained from Roberts body like sand from an hourglass, leaving him slightly slumped. Robert heaved a sigh and blew his hair out of his face. His eyes were sad and tense, lines of stress stark on his face as he looked Jimmy in the eyes. He sighed again and helped Jimmy up off the coach, practically lifting him.  “Come on,” Robert said dispassionately, “let’s get you cleaned up now.”

Jimmy moved his legs as though walking knee deep in blackstrap molasses, his fatigue tenth fold as they moved to the kitchen. By the time they made it Robert was practically dragging Jimmy, Roberts arms wrapping under Jimmy’s and easing him into a chair. 

Jimmy’s eyes slid shut on there own according and he wilted in the chair like a flower. 

“Oh, no you don’t,” Robert hissed, practically prying Jimmy’s eyes open; Jimmy groaned morosely.

Jimmy sprung up like a coil when a damp warm cloth engulfed his hand and set it alight with pain. 

“Percy!” He groused, trying to pull his hand way from Roberts and the damp cloth, but Robert held fast. “God Perce!” Jimmy’s whole arm buzzed with pain, his fingers trying to curl way from the cloth. 

Robert pried Jimmy’s hand open gently, impatiently chiding him, “Jimmy I’ve got to clean this, you’ll get an infection if I don’t.” 

“Crowley! No, Robert!” Jimmy cradled his hand to his chest as Robert pulled out an alcohol swab. 

“Sit down you child!” 

Robert held Jimmy’s palm tightly, careful of his finger, and cleaned the now visible cuts with alcohol. Without the blood hiding the damage, Roberts stomach twisted painfully, and he adverted his eyes for a moment. The deep lacerations bubbled with small beads of blood but didn’t spill over; the unsplit skin of Jimmy’s finger tips were paint a sick yellow and purple and were inflamed and heated. Robert grasped Jimmy’s palm tighter as he cautiously applied a healing ointment and wrapped Jimmy’s fingers with bandages. 

Jimmy had kept silent, guilt and shamed sending waves of sickness through his torso. He watched Robert work successfully and calmly, and the ease in which he went about it relieved Jimmy’s nervous energy.

Finished, Robert hesitantly brought Jimmy’s palm to his lips and press a firm kiss to it. Above him Jimmy’s breath hitched. Drawing back, Robert beheld into his friend’s wide pale-olive eyes and smiled tiredly with weary eyes. 

“Let’s get you something to eat,” Robert suggested and patted Jimmy’s shoulder before leaving to rummage through the fridge he’d stocked not three days prior. When Robert had first met Jimmy, his house had been stock with fine expensive food and wine, and Robert had felt out of place eating his Parisian cheese and Italian biscuits. Now Robert could come here and expect nothing other them expiring milk and Jack Daniels. Thus, once every few week, Robert drag a begrudged Jimmy to the local grocers and helped him stock his house; now getting Jimmy to actually make food and eat it was something else entirely (self-destructive brat). So perceptibly it was safe to assume Jimmy hadn’t bother feeding himself last night.

Robert finished cooking and drizzled syrup onto golden brown French toast, brining it to the table. He watched in dismay as Jimmy struggled to finish his meal. Jimmy huffed frustrated. He knew he stomach was twisting with hunger, but the smell closed his throat and the food choked on it way down. He leaned his forehead on his palms and pushed his good hand through his raven locks. 

“Robert I can’t right now... I’m sorry.”

Robert lifted Jimmy’s chin with soft fingers, “It’s okay, lets just get you to bed, we’ll talk later.”

      

       Jimmy lay placid and dead to the world in his bed; his downy blanket cocooned him safely from the troubles of the world. Robert relaxed into Jimmy’s loveseat, watching the rise and fall of Jimmy’s chest under his clean (Led Zeppelin) shirt; Robert threw away the other bloodied one.

Robert studied the dainty flutter of Jimmy’s dark lashes on his pale cheeks, wondering if the mans dreams held the same heaviness that seemed to cloak during the day. Robert admired his friends’ dangerous features, awestruck by the way his angelic face deceived him. Robert leaned forward and stroke Jimmy’s hair, his breath catching at the way the light revealed hidden fibers of magenta, maroon, eccentric purples. Roberts heart ached with love and loneliness, a deep grief chilling his bones. 

Robert sighed and left to clean up down stairs. 

 

       The tickle of sun on his face dragged Jimmy from the clutches slumber. 

He breathed in heavily, his back tingling with a faint ache as he turned to peer out the window; the sun had broken through the gloom in thin stretches of luminous gold. He breathed heavily and let the pads of his feet find the floor. 

Jimmy entered the kitchen to the smell of flowers misting the air. Robert turned slightly from seeping earl grey leaves, acknowledging Jimmy with a troubled smile. 

“Robert- “

“Jimmy- “

They both stopped. Jimmy bit his lip and tucked a tress of hair behind his ear, Robert continued, “Jimmy,” he stalled and shifted were he stood, guilt coiling in his belly like a snake, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have put so much pressure on you with this song, I- “

Jimmy watched Robert aghast, “No, Crowley, Robert, no, this isn’t your fault, I-I just want the song to be seamless, it was my own obstinateness that did this, not you- good lord no!” Jimmy’s voice was fractured with emotion, and Robert pulled him into his arm, not knowing what else to do. 

Jimmy clung to the back of Roberts floral blouse as he whispers, “I didn’t want you guys to hear it unfinished; I didn’t think I’d be good enough, that you’d be disappointed. I foolishly though I could bring it in for today session. It was ridiculous, but I just wanted you to feel you could depend on me. I’m sorry, Robert” Jimmy’s lips brush against Roberts shoulder as he spoke. 

Roberts heart twisted; he wished he could understand what went through Jimmy’s mind, to understand it’s dark corners and self-deprecating crevices. “Pagey, you can’t take on something that heavy. We all depend on each other; that’s why we work so well; that’s why we have the chemistry we do.” Robert hesitated before admitting softly; “That’s why _you and I_ have that kind of chemistry, because you can rely on me, and I know that’ll I’ll be able to lean on you too.” He held Jimmy’s face between his hands, his thumbs stroking over the milky skin under Jimmy’s eyes. 

“Robert-” Jimmy started, his voice beseeching. Robert closed the slim distance between them, taking Jimmy’s soft plush lips into his own firm ones. Robert sucked a small moan from Jimmy’s lips before pulling way, smiling in wonder when Jimmy chased his lips for another kiss. Jimmy angled his head slightly, his wet lips gliding against Roberts own erotically, Jimmy’s teeth tugging lewdly at Roberts bottoms lip. Robert huffed a laugh against Jimmy’s persistent lips, feeling Jimmy smile as well, and pressed their foreheads together. Jimmy’s eyes fluttered open, his iris’s glowing in the suns rays. Jimmy blinked his eyes as they glossed over with emotion, and tried to look away; instead, Robert stole his lips in another kiss.

 

       Jimmy had been correct, his hand had taken two weeks to be playable, and three weeks to be fully healed. As the clock upon the wall was ticking, Robert all but moved in; letting himself in at dusk and leaving at dawn, or other times not leaving at all. Robert hadn’t known what do to about the recent discovery of Jimmy’s anxiety (or the severity of it), due more to the fact that Jimmy would hide it under stoney eyes and snarky replies. But Robert found a deep well of patience within himself, and each time the rain fell, his well was replenished with refreshing water. Together they’d worked out various strategies (with no small amount of arguing and tears involved), and as the cuts on Jimmy’s fingers knitted themselves together, so did Robert and Jimmy also. Jimmy had half the mind to feel guilty about claiming all Roberts time, but the strong and sure kisses Robert bestowed upon Jimmy’s lips replace what ever lingering guilt with sunshine and honey. 

After two weeks Jimmy begun playing his guitar again and continued to toil with their song, only this time he had Robert beside him, reassuring him with his joyous praises and love. 

In the third week, Robert had stayed the night before their scheduled session day. Jimmy’s part of their song was perfected to each chord and slide; yet anxiety had crippled him, muting his ability to eat or sleep. Robert held him through the darkness until they tumbled into exhaustion.

The next afternoon, Jimmy gnawed on his lip as he sat down with his guitar before Jonesy and Bonzo, Robert at his side. 

“Well let’s hear it mate,” Bonzo encouraged after a spell. 

Jimmy clutched his fret board, muting the possibility for sound. “I, ah, I got to use the loo for a tic first.” 

Jimmy stumbled out of his chair handing his guitar to Jonesy who glanced to Bonzo alarmed. 

Robert caught up with Jimmy in the hall way, finding him with his back and head leaning against the wall, his eyes squeezed tight and eyebrows pinched, his chest heaving.

“Jimmy, Jimmy come on now, it’s alright hon, it’s alright,” Robert pulled Jimmy against his chest, running a hand through his dark hair. “Come on James, breath, match your breaths to mine,” Robert exaggerated his breathing fractionally, letting Jimmy grope with the rhythm. He felt panic strike him sharply when Jimmy didn’t immediately reciprocate his breathing, but as minutes passed so did Jimmy’s anxiety. They stood leaned up against the hallway wall for a time, Jimmy’s head on Roberts shoulder. 

“Bonzo and Jonesy aren’t going to crucify you if there’s a hiccup in your playing Jimmy,” Robert broke the silence lightly, bringing Jimmy’s face into his hand like Jimmy loved. 

“I’d rather them crucify me then be disappointed in me,” Jimmy divulged. 

Robert squeezed Jimmy tighter, he wasn’t going to break through to Jimmy by praising him or telling him a mistake or two was just the way life went. He had to show him. Robert lay Jimmy’s head back on his shoulder, cradling him there.

“Do you remember when we were playing at a rather small joint in American a few years ago?” He felt Jimmy nod and smiled; he probably didn’t. “The crowd was hectic, they bloody loved us. We’d been playing for hour by then and Bonzo was starting to get cocky. As per usual,” he felt Jimmy’s lips curl into a fond smile. “Well Bonzo was about to land the final blow on his solo, and it was a beautiful one too, people were attentive, not going off to snog a face like they usually would during drum solos. Anyhow, the sea of people were hanging on to every last note, waiting for their climax, and Bonzo being himself, threw his sticks up into the air, like Sonny Payne, and the bloody things beat down on his head,” Jimmy let out a startled laugh as the memory caught up to him, “yeah the audience thought it was pretty funny too and they just roared with laughter as Bonzo scrambled to pick up his sticks. He finished off with a rimshot.” Roberts lips were twisted into a half smile at the cherished memory. 

With Jimmy still chuckling Robert continued, “and you can’t tell me you forget when I stated to sing the wrong song in one of our San Francisco shows last year,” Jimmy started to crackle up, “you started to play the bloody intro to ‘Babe I’m Gonna Leave You’ and I started howling ‘I Can’t Quit You Baby’” Robert shook his head, his cheeks heating up bashfully. 

When Jimmy’s laugher faded into little snorts and hiccups, Robert lifted his face up again to look at him, “you see, James, it’s quite alright to make a mistake. _It’s okay!”_ Robert stressed. “None of us will hate you or think less of you, or god forbid be _disappointed._ You created Led Zeppelin Jimmy, you brought together this band, this _family_ together! How could we ever feel anything but love for you?” 

Jimmy’s eyes welled with tears.

“It’s true mate,” Jimmy startled and stepped away from Robert. Bonzo and Jonesy were standing at the end of the hall way, watching their interactions, “we do love you, we might even respect you,” he said with a smirk, but his voice rang genuine. 

Jimmy laughed wetly, tucking his long hair behind his ears and wiping his eye. 

“Although,” Jonesy considered mischievously, “perhaps not quit the way Robert loves you.” 

Bonzo wailed with laughter as Jimmy went red in the face, Robert beside him chortling as well. Robert wrapped an arm around Jimmy’s waist, pulling him close as they walk back to the recording room with Bonzo and Jonesy. 

“Shut up Bonzo, ‘snot like you and Jonesy aren’t big fairy’s when we’re not around either.” 

Bonzo chocked and Jonesy wheezed breathlessly. But Roberts laughter rang bright, washing the room in its golden honey and mending Jimmy’s heart with love.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Well there it is, my first fanfiction. Comments, suggestions, and inquires warmly welcomed.  
> lots of peace and love,  
> Grace.


End file.
